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“I don’t know! I don’t—” He screams in pain and howls when I won’t let up. “A dude. Greene. He’s a friend I’ve known since forever. He heard about what happened on Monday, he knew there was a bounty on her head. So he pulled me in to make money.”
I stop with the syringe and look to Fletch. “Greene one of our bodies?”
He inclines his head, telling me everything I need to know.
So I look down to Tommy again and continue feeding promethazine into his vein. “Greene’s dead, buddy. So now it’s on you to figure this out.”
“Stop!” He sobs. “Please stop.”
“Why is there a bounty on her head?”
“What?” He kicks out again and makes the bed groan in protest. “She saw the thing. The one with Lombardo.”
“But Vallejo has a million bodies stacked up under his name.” I empty my syringe into his arm and stare into his eyes with venom. “Why does he care so much about not going away for this one?”
“I don’t know. I don’t!” he screams when I drop my hand into my pocket to take out the next box of pain. “I don’t know, man. I just know that Vallejo’s been underground for years, right?Gone. I haven’t seen hide nor hair for five fucking years. Then this happens this week, and suddenly everyone is freaking out.”
“Why is everyone freaking out?” I take the box from my pocket anyway and tear it open with my teeth. “Why did Vallejo come out of hiding for Lombardo? Why does he have a price on the girl’s head when she poses no real threat?”
“I don’t know!”
I flip the cap off the bottle and bring my needle to the stopper. “He’s wanted for more crimes than I can count, Tommy. He’s been dead for five years. Why’d he come back out this week?”
“I don’t know,” he sobs, his eyes glued to the bottle and our filling needle. “I swear, I don’t know. I was out. Ever since that night in the club, I’ve been out. Far as I knew, Vallejo was dead, too. I’ve been good, Banks.”
“And yet,” I draw every last drop up through the needle and raise a brow, “there you were today, shooting at me and a girl who can’t defend herself.” I lower my hands and stare into his eyes. “She didn’t hurt you, Tommy.”
“It’s just money,” he cries. “Times are tough, and the price was right. What the fuck you expect me to do?”
“Not shoot at a girl who can’t shoot back!” I reconnect the syringe and tubing and push half the contents through in the space of a single second. It hurts enough to have his body almost levitating. His screams, louder than any in the maternity wards. “Who do you report to now that Greene is dead?”
“No one.” He curls in as far as his cuffed wrists allow and cries like a child. “There is no one.”
“But what about the payday? How will you get your money?”
“I won’t,” he whimpers. “She’s alive, and I got caught.” He burrows into his pillows and weeps. “I won’t survive the week anyway. Not now that the cops are in here talking to me.”
“Vallejo’ll think you’re snitching?” I question smugly. “He’ll know you talked. Do you want my protection now, Tommy?”
His eyes flicker open and stop on mine.
“After shooting at me?” I chuckle. “You want me to take care of you when I have a fellow officer with a bullet in his shoulder, and a witness with a bullet hole in her arm?”
Fletcher’s eyes widen with surprise at that small revelation. But I shake my head and lean closer to the piece of shit I hold no pity for. “You brought an automatic weapon into a hospital parking lot today, Tommy. You opened fire in a safe space, and you almost killed the girl I’ll kill to protect.” I slam the last of the promethazine into his veins and straighten out as he screams. “There must be honor in war, or else, what the fuck are we even doing here?”
I pull the syringe from his tubing and replace it with whatever was supposed to be dripping in the first place, then pocketing my paraphernalia, I wink at Fletch and set my hands on my hips like I wasn’t just torturing a man. “Good to see you, Detective Fletcher. You handle well under pressure.”
“Uh…” He casts a glance toward the still-closed door. “Thanks?”
“Head on over to the safe house and keep an eye on your partner.” I step away from the bed and take out my phone. “Let them know I won’t be home for another hour yet.”
Stalking through the door and past a white-faced uniform, I continue into the hall and away from my crime scene. But I scroll the contacts in my phone and tap when a name I haven’t dialed in years pops up.
That’s not to say he hasn’t called me. We’ve talked, of course. There’s still a loyalty he demands. But not once, in all that time, have I reached out to him.
Hitting dial and bringing the phone to my ear, I stroll along the hallway and into the elevator at the end.
“Drake?” My father’s concerned tone cuts through any small talk and needles its way into my consciousness. He could just be a dad worried about his kid. Maybe he’s curious about the fact I’ve called for the first time in years. But chances are, he’s got something else going instead.
